Jump
Jump, he says
And the others agree.
Just jump.
Jump and I will catch you.
The others already jumped.
Only I am afraid,
only I struggled to climb here.
I could inch my way across the swinging bars,
go back to he ladder,
climb softly to earth.
I could skoooooch back.
Just enough to slip through
hold the bars
and lower myself softly down
That would be harder than jumping
But I've done it before.
I've never jumped.
I've watched the others,
flying carelessly into he twilight,
arms and legs akimbo,
landing in tight tucks on the grass, laughing.
And besides,
(jump and i will catch you)
I don't want to shiver
in front of the teenager from next door.
I would never live it down.
And he says he will catch me.
I inch forward, just a little,
my fists on the iron bar
already knowing the truth of it.
I wanted to be Nadia last year,
flying and flipping and
swinging around the bars.
But I am not Nadia.
My feet never seem to fall
in the places where I mean to set them.
My body tips and sways awkwardly.
But still
(just jump and i will catch you)
I can't just back out.
Not with everyone watching.
I push myself forward.
I know it has gone wrong
even before I've fully let go.
The earth is rising up toward my face,
not gliding gently beneath my outstretched feet.
I crash with a sound of a dull snort of contempt
Jump and I will catch you.
But he jumped away,
laughing with the others
as I swallowed my tooth.
I didn't cry.
You don't, do you?
Not when they're watching.